


K Note

by etherealApostate



Category: Death Note, K (Anime)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 17:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10340913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealApostate/pseuds/etherealApostate
Summary: WIP parody: what would happen if various K characters got hold of a Death Note.





	1. Chapter 1

Misaki Yata was riding his skateboard down a deserted street, just before nightfall. Two seconds later, he was reeling on the concrete, wiping dirt out of a very new scrape on his elbow. 

 

“Don’t tell me some kind of bird hit me,” he muttered, climbing to his feet and casting around for the projectile at fault. There was a knot forming at the back of his head from impact. 

 

On the ground a few feet away lay a thin black book. Yata scanned the street, looking fruitlessly for an owner. 

 

“Ok…. maybe they wrote their name inside,” he said to himself, and went to pick the book up. However, bent halfway over to the sun-faded concrete, he paused. 

 

_ Oh…. _ What if this was a diary? God forbid…. The diary of a  _ girl _ ? Or-- or someone who was writing  _ fanfiction _ or something in it? What if it belonged to someone he knew? 

 

This was ridiculous, Yata decided. His back was going to cramp if he stayed bent over any longer. He willed his fingers to move forward, to grasp the slender spine, and lift it up….

 

Casting once more around the street, he breathed a light sigh of relief; it was still deserted -- and then he turned his attention to the book in his hands. The front said “Death Note.” Yata’s brow began to furrow, and its crease deepened as he read the instructions inside. His English wasn’t great by any stretch of the word; from what he could tell, the book had something to do with either killing people or using clocks to masturbate. Either way, Yata knew what he had to do. He was taking this book to his king. 

 

\--

 

“He’s upstairs,” Kusanagi said. His back was turned from the bar as he restocked the shelves of liquor. “What’s the matter? You seem a little tense, Yata.” 

 

“Uh. I don’t know, I just found something weird. Maybe you could take a look?” 

 

“Sure,” Kusanagi said, shelving a last bottle of whiskey and turning to lean over the bar. Yata pulled the notebook from his pocket and slid it onto the polished wood. A dry look that might have passed for amusement in some circles crossed Kusanagi’s face as he read the title, then flipped the book open to the instructional page. 

 

“This is obviously a joke, Yata.” 

 

“Yeah! Yeah, but what does it say?” 

 

“Well, as the title would suggest, it kills the person whose name is written inside. These are pretty detailed instructions, though. Maybe curse-chain emails have finally made their way into the physical realm….” Kusanagi sighed dismissively and slid the book back across the bar. Yata began to mumble a thanks, but stopped halfway as heavy footsteps on the stairway heralded an arrival from the second floor. 

 

Mikoto entered the barroom proper, jacket thrown over his shoulder and an unlit cigarette braced between his lips. 

 

“Good morning,” Kusanagi called, in his usual tone, the one that sounded the way khakis look. 

 

“Morning,” Mikoto replied. “What’s all this?” He nodded to the notebook on the counter. “Don’t tell me one of you found Anna’s diary.” 

 

“No! It’s not like that at all!” Yata replied, immediately flustered. “This weird notebook just fell out of the sky and hit me yesterday evening, it’s some kind of sick prank. Apparently if you write someone’s name inside they’ll die and….” He trailed off as Mikoto leaned close, picked up the notebook, flipped straight past the instructional page, and slipped a blank page between his fingers, testing its texture. Mikoto proceeded to tear off a strip of the paper and pull out a baggie of tobacco from his pocket. Using the Death Note, Mikoto began to roll a cigarette. 

 

Kusanagi continued restocking, and Yata tried not to look like he was watching, as Mikoto licked it firmly, jammed a filter in one end, and lit up. 

 

“Mind if I keep this?” He asked Yata. “It’s good rolling paper.” 

 

Yata shrugged. “Of course.” 

 

\--

 

At two AM next Tuesday, and about eight pages’ worth of cigarettes into the Death Note, Mikoto woke in the middle of the night (a highly unusual circumstance). 

 

As his eyes stared blearily into the darkness, he registered a figure at the foot of his bed. It was about eight feet tall, and had terrible posture. 

 

“Why are you in my room,” Mikoto mumbled, dragging himself into a sitting position. 

 

The figure leaned forward. “I am Namus. I am a God of Death.” 

 

_ Maybe I  _ should _ see that psychiatrist Munakata keeps telling me about _ , Mikoto thought. He muttered something indiscernible and sank back into his blankets, eyes closing. 

 

The shinigami frowned. “I said, I am a  _ God of Death _ ! Pay attention to me, dammit!” 

 

Mikoto opened one eye to see a hideous face -- wide grin, five-inch fangs, and no skin (just over-porous bone) -- staring back at him. 

 

“No. You’re not real,” he said. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

Namus let out a frustrated groan. “Fine.” She grabbed the red king by his scruff and lifted him a full foot off the bed. “Could a hallucination do  _ this _ ?” 

 

Mikoto shrugged. “I’m probably just using my powers in my sleep. Like sleep-walking. Why am I even talking to you.” 

 

Namus decided that convincing this unusually laconic human of her existence could wait. “Whatever. I’m more interested in what you’ve been doing with my Death Note….” She scanned the room, then picked up the slender book from its place on Mikoto’s bedside table. “I haven’t been paying attention to the human world lately, so I hope you’ve made some interesting  _ death _ - _ cisions _ ….” She cackled at her own pun, then flipped the Note open. 

 

“...What?” She turned to look at the still-groggy Mikoto, who was reclining in bed with one hand pressed against his face. “Where are the pages? Did you even kill  _ anyone _ ?”

 

“If you’re going to keep me up, I could at least use a fag,” Mikoto grumbled, ignoring Namus’ comments and snatching the book out of her hands. He leaned over and fumbled in the bedside drawer, pulling out his filters and tobacco bag. 

 

“What are you… oh my  _ god _ ,” the shinigami said, as Mikoto propped himself up on his elbows, tore another strip from the Death Note, and began rolling a cigarette on his bedside table. Namus sank down into the corner with a teary sigh. “This is just what I get,” she said to herself. “I finally get an extra Note to play with, and  _ this _ is the sonofabitch that picks it up…. I might as well just kill myself, the other death gods are going to laugh at me until the end of time….”

 

“I’m used to my hallucinations being a little quieter,” Mikoto growled, in between licks at the half-sealed cigarette. “Think you could pick up on their note?” 

  
“ _ I’M NOT A FUCKING HALLUCINATION, GODDAMNIT!”  _ Namus yelled. Mikoto shrugged, tamped the filter a little deeper inside his cigarette, and fished around for his lighter. 


	2. In Which Mikoto Beats a Bitch and Gets a Psychiatrist Referral

 

“So,” Mikoto said, bringing one hand forward to knock away Munakata’s blow as their rooftop war raged. “Who was that psychiatrist you were telling me about?”

 

Munakata’s face split into an all-too-familiar smug grin as he disengaged from Mikoto’s parry and swung his sword again, rippling with blue flames. “Finally decided to start doing what any conscientious human would do in your state? Making sure the rest of the world no longer has to suffer from your presence?” 

 

Mikoto dodged and slipped to the side before landing a clipping blow on Munakata’s shoulder. He took his enemy’s brief, ensuing falter to respond: “I’m just curious to see if I can better rid the world of you if I know your mind.” 

 

“OK, OK, time out.” Munakata wiped his brow and lowered his sword as Mikoto stayed himself to a ready stance, his aura shrinking but not dimming. “I’ll give you his card….” Munakata dug into his coat pocket, searching. “But you do realize client-patient confidentiality is a thing, right?” 

 

Mikoto shrugged. “I’m sure I could get it out of him one way or another.” 

 

Munakata shook his head as he offered the thin slip of paper. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t trust my deepest secrets to someone who couldn’t take a little torture.” Mikoto knew the glint in Munakata’s eye; he wouldn’t put it past the blue king to have tested that premise. 

 

Mikoto took the card and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Let’s find out if you can withstand the same kind of pain, Blue King.” 

 

As the colors clashed into the night, the shinigami Namus was perched on the rooftop of a nearby building, lost in thought --

  
_ Day Three. The Mikoto human still believes I am a figment of his tortured mind. The Death Note’s pages have decreased sporadically; he keeps insisting that it “rolls a good fag.” I have no idea how in the wide world of fuck this guy has managed to survive with this much power and this much clinical depression. H E L P M E…. _


	3. In Which L is the World's Worst Psychiatrist

The waiting room was painted uniformly in shades of beige, most of which hovered between “the khakis you wore to your grandmother’s funeral when you were nine” and “that time when your dead grandmother’s senile cat ate the toe off her cold corpse and you only found out when the cat vomited it up on your lap.” 

 

Mikoto was huddled in a corner, under a strong smell of the disinfectant that the receptionist (an old man whose mustache looked stronger than his immune system probably was) had sprayed him vigorously with upon entering. Elevator music played very loudly from behind a (dead, beige) potted plant.

 

“Dr. Ryuzaki will see you now.” Mikoto raised his head, looking with dead eyes into the face of the old receptionist who now held the door to the psychiatrist’s office open. If it were possible for someone to stand up disgustedly, well, that was what Mikoto did, before proceeding through the door and into a small, dimly-lit room. 

 

“Suoh Mikoto,” a voice called from the corner. Mikoto blinked as his eyes adjusted. In the issuant corner, he spied a figure sitting, back to him, in one of those swiveling office chairs, and as he watched, the figure spun slowly around to face him.

 

“Please…. Sit down.” Doctor Ryuzaki was crouched like a frog in the chair, his eyes huge and rimmed with black exhaustion under a wild frame of black hair. 

 

Mikoto took a seat on the dark blue couch facing the doctor, and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. He ignored the shinigami who crouched, silent, in the corner of the room (as usual).

 

“So,” the doctor said, contorting one arm behind him to pluck a bag of candy from his desk, “What brings you here today?” He lifted a piece of the candy -- gumdrops, it looked like -- and began to lick absentmindedly at it.

 

Mikoto’s eyes narrowed. After a moment of silence, he said, “Your waiting room is terrible.” 

 

Ryuzaki giggled, and licked his lips, making a smacking sound. 

 

“And this room isn’t much better.” 

 

“Well,” Ryuzaki replied, “It’s really all part of a psychological  _ relaxation _ tactic, you see. Beige is the most frequently-used color in waiting rooms, so I made mine  _ all  _ beige in order to submerge the patient into a state of corporate re-wombing, putting them in the mindspace of total office-culture  _ tabula rasa _ . The smarter patients realize that the exaggeration of corporate decor is purposeful, and are spurred to contemplate the very concept of the capitalist  _ tabula rasa _ which we are conditioned to receive in waiting rooms.” 

 

His tone made it clear that Mikoto was  _ not _ one of these “smarter patients.” 

 

Ryuzaki continued. “The dimness and dark-toned decor of my office proper is, well -- “ having licked the entirety of the sugar from the gumdrop, he popped it into his mouth and swallowed, licking his fingers clean “-- really the same concept, except that it stems from a  _ modus _ of essentialist birthing associations, a structure which has affected all of us, and in which terms every patient’s problems must be reckoned with, if only tangentially.” 

 

Mikoto was beginning to see why Munakata liked this guy, despite his absurd, animalistic mannerisms. 

 

“Hallucinations,” was all Mikoto said. Time to see if this guy was worth his salt.

 

Ryuzaki licked his lips again. “What kind?” 

 

Mikoto shrugged. “All kinds. Since I was maybe thirteen.”

 

Ryuzaki nodded slowly. “Why see me now?” 

 

“Why do you think? They’ve started getting annoying.” 

 

“You are probably clinically insane. I am going to subject you to a series of rebirthing therapies.” He pressed an intercom button on his desk. “Watari, fetch the Blanket.” 

 

Mikoto snorted. “No. I’m leaving.” He unlaced his fingers from behind his head and started to rise. 

 

“OH. MY. GOD. YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS.” Mikoto blinked. Namus was standing before him, gesturing in emphatic frustration. 

 

“I SWEAR TO THE ENTIRE KING OF THE SHINIGAMI, I HAVE  _ NEVER, NEVER  _ SEEN A HUMAN AS MUCH IN NEED OF THERAPY AS YOU ARE!” The shinigami screamed. “FOR THE LOVE OF SHIT IN A BARREL, PLEASE JUST SIT BACK DOWN AND TALK TO THE GODDAMN DOCTOR!” 

 

Mikoto blinked, and sat back down. “Fine,” he muttered.

 

“Is it talking to you?” Mikoto jumped as he felt Ryuzaki’s hot breath on his ear. 

 

“...Yeah. Get the fuck away from me.” He pushed Ryuzaki to the far side of the couch.

 

“Alright. What’s the hallucination saying?” Dr. Ryuzaki was using the same tone that Totsuka used with two-year-olds. Mustering as much disdain as possible, and as much willpower as he had not to activate his sanctum and deck the fucker, Mikoto replied, 

 

“It’s telling me I need therapy.”

 

The wide eyes stared at Mikoto as Ryuzaki nodded slowly. Mikoto winced again as a rush of fetid breath came in his other ear; the shinigami had bent down to speak.

 

“ _ Let him touch the Death Note clipping in your pocket!”  _

 

At another curious look from Ryuzaki, Mikoto relayed: “It… wants me to get you to touch my fag papers.” 

 

“Your what?” 

 

Mikoto let out an irritated huff and pulled a folded piece of the Death Note from his pocket. He handed it to Ryuzaki, who took it, nonplussed. 

 

Ryuzaki’s look turned to one of sheer terror as he then saw the eight-foot-tall monster standing before them. 

 

“What?” Mikoto murmured. “Am I  _ not _ hallucinating?” 

 

_ “Finally _ , for fuck’s sake!” Namus exclaimed. 

 

_ I should never have dropped that second tab last night _ , Ryuzaki thought.  _ Wait. Maybe I’m  _ actually  _ insane.  _ His eyes turned, wild, to the patient sitting on his couch. “THERE’S NO PROOF YOU’RE REAL!” He screamed, and dived for his desk, rifling madly through the drawers. 

 

“Not  _ again _ ,” Namus sighed. Mikoto watched in silence as Ryuzaki downed an entire bottle of nondescript white pills, and momentarily went into convulsions. 

 

Mikoto stood, stuck his head out the office door, and caught the receptionist’s eye. 

  
“Your doctor is trying to commit suicide, I think,” he said, and opened the door further, moving to exit. He didn’t turn to see the look on Watari’s face. 


	4. At Least It Wasn't an Entire Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Totsuka experiences one of the more awkward funeral visitations of his life.

Totsuka’s whistling trailed off as he entered bar HOMRA and spied Mikoto in the corner. “Ah, King! I was at the funeral home today, and you’ll never guess whose visitation is tonight!” 

 

Mikoto looked up. “Yeah?” 

 

“Munakata’s psychiatrist, the one you went to see the other day!” Totsuka dragged both hands down his cheeks in half-serious sympathy. “Apparently he started hallucinating and committed suicide, it’s just awful….” 

 

Mikoto’s gaze returned to the phone in his hand. “Yeah.” 

 

“The visitation is at five.” 

 

“K.” 

 

Totsuka’s mouth twisted at the end. “Well, if you’re not going, then I will.  _ Someone _ has to be sociable around here!”

 

\--

 

Totsuka paused over the guest book, scanning the list of names. Most of them were…. Weird. “Mello,” in a teenager’s blocky handwriting. Below that, “Near,” in careful calligraphy. Totsuka’s eyes unfocused momentarily as his pen hovered over the blank bottom space, imagining a formless maternal figure holding a squalling, placenta-wet baby and saying, “Welp, it’s not  _ far _ .” Grinning to himself, he put his name down in a few neat strokes and straightened up, returning the pen to the table. 

 

The visitation room wasn’t large, but it was hardly filled at all. A couple of vaguely pubescent kids of indeterminate gender were huddled in one corner; one was nibbling at a bar of chocolate, and the other was fiddling around with some kind of doll. By the casket, the main attraction, stood a very old and very well-suited man. 

 

Well. Totsuka decided he would pay his respects and be on his way. He passed the open casket and gave a cursory nod to the corpse, then a slight double-take as he realized its eyes were open -- pupils huge, and all glazed over with the blue-gray film of death. 

 

_ Well. _ Totsuka put on an appropriately subdued smile nonetheless and approached the old man, extending his hand. “I’m Totsuka Tatara,” he said. “My condolences, sir.” 

 

The man nodded somberly and shook Totsuka’s hand. “Thank you very much.” 

 

Compelled to say something further, Totsuka added, “I didn’t know Dr. Ryuzaki personally, but a good friend of mine saw him for treatment a few days ago -- I know he came back with a lot to think about. I wish I could’ve thanked the doctor myself….” he trailed off, seeing the old man’s jaw tighten visibly. Wrong move? Wrong move. “I’ll-- I’ll get out of your hair, anyway. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.” 

 

With another smile, Totsuka headed for the door, only to run straight into the last person he’d expected to see here: Munakata Reisi. 

 

“Hello,” Munakata said with a cool smile. 

 

Totsuka strengthened his fronting smile. “Hello!” 

 

They stared in silence for a moment, and just as Tostuka was about to open his mouth to make small talk of some sort, Munakata leaned over and whispered in his ear: “Tell your king thank you for his help in my plan.” 

  
Totsuka stiffened, pulled away, and exited abruptly. 


	5. And Fuck Munakata Reisi In Particular

“His  _ what _ .” Mikoto’s eyes bored into Totsuka’s.

 

Totsuka shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t want to know. You’ll have to ask him.”

 

Mikoto let out a low growl and jammed his hand into his pocket to fish out his phone. He rose, snapped the device open, and began furiously punching in a number as he headed upstairs. 

 

Munakata picked up on the first ring. Mikoto, already seething, could practically hear the rampant smugness on the other end of the line. 

 

“Reisi.” 

 

“Aaaah, so Tatara gave you my message?” 

 

“What in hell are you trying to do. You think you can use me as a  _ pawn _ ?” 

 

A chuckle. Mikoto ground his teeth. 

 

“No, dear Mikoto, you’re a different kind of dimepiece.” 

 

“...Dimepiece?” 

 

“No,  _ piece _ . You must be hearing things. Tut. I should find you another psychiatrist to reward you for helping me out….” 

 

“Reisi, you have five seconds to start explaining before I declare an entire war on your clan.” 

 

A sigh.  _ Finally _ , Mikoto thought.

 

“As I’m sure you’ve seen, Dr. Ryuzaki was a terrible psychiatrist.” 

 

“No shit,” Mikoto grunted.

 

“The thing is, people like  _ me _ don’t really need a smart psychiatrist. They need someone controllable. But Ryuzaki had more or less run his course of use in my power, and was exceedingly harmful to certain gullible patients.” 

 

A pause, pregnant with insult.

 

“Anyway, I figured a session with you would kill him, one way or anoth--”

 

Mikoto let out a disgusted snort and hung up mid-sentence. He made a snap decision to do something he never thought he was going to do.

 

“Namus,” he called softly.

 

The hulking figure stepped from the shadows. She stood, silent, her face in utter defeat. 

 

“Alright. Since that batshit psychiatrist could see you, I guess--” Mikoto let out a long breath through both nostrils “--You’re real. So. I have a task for you.” 

 

Namus’ face now bore mixed relief and anticipatory disturbance. “You’ve got this pretty much wrong. I don’t take orders from hum--” 

 

“I  _ will _ start ignoring you again.” 

 

“...Fine. What is it?” 

 

Mikoto squatted by his bedside table and began rolling another Death Note cigarette. “Munakata Reisi. Works at SCEPTER 4 headquarters. Glasses. Expression like a cat that’s just finished licking its own ass.” 

 

“You want me to kill him?” Namus tilted her head.

 

“Nah. Just fuck with him. Move his stuff. Make life…. Just make life really, really inconvenient for him. And don’t let him catch you.” 

 

Namus shrugged. That at least sounded vaguely fun. “OK.” 

 

Mikoto looked up from his work. “Seriously. They’re in the business of catching… strange creatures.”

 

“You do realize I can phase through walls, right?” 

  
Mikoto shook his head, and the shinigami disappeared.


End file.
